<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Taste of Sorrow by Mishka10</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24046846">The Taste of Sorrow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10'>Mishka10</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Reunion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:49:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24046846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sorrow has such an ugly taste, sour, it pools in the back of his throat."</p><p>Geralt has to deal with certain unexpected emotions after what happened between him and Jaskier on the mountain.<br/>These feelings come to head when he runs into a familiar face in an inn one evening.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>153</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Taste of Sorrow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> It takes him a while to notice, he’s not good with… feelings. He has them, that is an undeniable fact, but they tend to be muted, weak and… ignorable.</p><p>He knows how his emotions work, he picks them out and buries them, hiding them under distractions and simple pleasures. Lets them fall quiet, beneath the unending toll of everyday life.</p><p>Perhaps that’s why it took him so long to notice this time, notice the tugging on his heart, the unmistakable pull of sorrow and regret. Both feelings he’s accustomed to, feelings he’s felt before.</p><p>He should have been able to notice them, shut them down, hidden away in a corner, never to be willingly touched again, as was common procedure. But he had not. They had slipped in, past all of his defences, and defiantly settled around his heart.</p><p> </p><p>It starts with the cold. He is used to cold, used to the sharp slap of icy wind, the biting touch of frost, he knows what it is to be cold and it does not bother him.</p><p>Maybe that’s why it took him so long to notice it, the slow chill, creeping into his chest, settling down and finding a home beside his heart. It snuck into his veins, numbing fingers and toes. Making them slow and heavy.</p><p>He notices that, eventually, when numbed hands begin to fumble and slip, dropping coins, clothing, almost his sword once.</p><p>But he ignores it, he writes it off, it’s winter, it’s cold. He buys better gloves. Doesn’t think about what it means when they do nothing to stop the gnawing numbness in his limbs.</p><p> </p><p>Then comes the aching. The knots in his back, cramps in his legs, in his hands. When he rolls his head his neck cracks, loudly.</p><p>He thinks nothing of it. Sore muscles aren’t uncommon, given his work. Sure, it has gotten worse, it is getting worse. But it’s still winter. He’s tired. He needs a break. It’s normal, he tells himself, normal wear and tear, normal strain and pull.</p><p>He’s endured worse. It will pass, he will adjust. So, he ignores it. While he travels with Ciri he tries to grab an extra night asleep in an inn, in a real bed where he can, not wanting to force too many nights out in the cold on her. Not thinking about how he also hopes it will do something to ease his aching muscles.</p><p> He ignores the way he keeps up the practice once she’s not there, settled in to stay for a time with Yennefer. He tells himself it’s just out of habit. He doesn’t think about how little it has done to ease his pains.</p><p> </p><p>After that he notices the taste. Sorrow has such an ugly taste, sour, it pools in the back of his throat. The taste coats his mouth, sticking to his teeth, spoiling his appetite for food and drink alike.</p><p>Before long it drips down his throat, collecting in his stomach, curdling and removing any lasting chances of enjoying a meal.</p><p>Yet, it still takes him some time to notice. He rarely ate for pleasure, eating to sustain himself, paying little mind to delicate flavours. It’s hard to notice that everything has turned to sawdust in your mouth when you never paid enough attention to really know what it should taste like instead.</p><p>Still, the sour curdle in his stomach limits what he chokes down, even if he doesn’t take note of it.</p><p>He takes to drinking more, eating less.</p><p>The ale at least does something for him. It relaxes aching bones, its pleasant warmth spreads through him, giving the illusion of having thawed his numbed body, if nothing else.</p><p>It doesn’t remove the taste though. If anything, the acidic burn of alcohol adds to it, turning his stomach even more.</p><p>But that just gives him a locatable excuse not to eat.</p><p> </p><p>The pain is next.  Sorrow and regret when mixed form a powerful vice. It’s the hardest part to ignore, the heavy press of it, crushing his heart below the weight of his long ignored and buried pain.</p><p>This he can’t write off like the rest. Sometimes the ale works to numb it, to an extent. But at other times it only makes it worse, twists the vice farther, until he feels as though he may die. As though his traitorous heart, so ripe with the feelings he has tried to hard to ignore will burst from his chest and kill him.  </p><p> </p><p>He knows then, what it is that he feels, he has no more ways to deny it, he’s felt this way before. What he doesn’t know is why. Why his heart is contorting, crushing itself within him.</p><p>He tries to guess, to make peace with what concerns him, quell the crushing weight inside of him.</p><p>He worries it’s regret for how he treated Ciri. For not being there to begin with, for ignoring her, for cursing his connection to her in the years before they met.</p><p>He does his best to make amends. He spends time with her between his travels, talks with her, making efforts to let himself open up, as she needs him to. Does his best to provide the comfort she requires.</p><p>He worries it’s regret over Yennefer, lingering guilt over what he had done, tying them together. Regret over how they had left it. He talks to her as well, more carefully, guarded, but trying.</p><p>It helps, spending time with them both. When he is with them it begins to thaw him, lets him feel something other than cold. It eases some of the pain, loosens the vice around his heart.</p><p>But it doesn’t remove it. It’s still there, secure within his chest.</p><p> </p><p>It all comes to head in an inn in some tiny town in the middle of nowhere. He’s passing through, heard of trouble, folks disappearing, a town over. He’s tucked in a corner, ignoring the stares and the whispers, ignoring everything but his ale.</p><p>He doesn’t even really notice the strumming of the lute, letting it filter past as general background noise. It’s not until he hears the voice. The singing.</p><p>And, oh, <em>oh</em>. His heart spasms, twisting and turning frantically in his chest as the vice tightens as far as it can go.</p><p>He looks up, already knowing who he will see. Sure enough, the unseemly bright clothes, that familiar smile. It’s Jaskier.</p><p>His heart jumps to his throat, yet somehow the vice remains in his chest, twisting everything tighter and tighter.</p><p> </p><p>  He doesn’t know what to do. He sits, frozen. He considers leaving, trying to sneak out before Jaskier sees him. He’s not sure where this newfound desire to run has come from.</p><p>Running won’t ease the twisting weight on his heart, the sick cold sunk deep within his bones. He knows if he wants to ease the pain needs to stay.</p><p>But right now, in the moment, completely unprepared, he doesn’t want to. He tries to hunker down in his spot. Perhaps Jaskier won’t notice him, he can sneak out after, unnoticed, shattering heart be damned.</p><p> He sees the exact moment Jaskier becomes aware of him, sees the fingers twitch, catches the stutter in his breath, the slight fumble. He covers it up well, recovering quickly, continuing on as though completely unaffected.</p><p>He’s been seen, there’s no point to running now. So, he stays, watches the bard commanding the space, dance through the room. He looks good, cheeks flushed, happy.</p><p> </p><p> Jaskier comes to him afterwards, strolling up casually, a playful smile gracing his lips. It’s all too familiar, Geralt chokes around the heart in his throat.</p><p>Conversation falls easily from the bard’s lips, as it always had. He hadn’t expected this. He’s not sure what he had expected. He hadn’t let himself think about this, let himself think about Jaskier.</p><p>He had tucked the bard away, long buried under anything he could find to cover it, refusing to let himself even think about what had happened, what he had said. Choosing instead to ignore all of it- <em>Ah. </em>And now his mouth was stained with the taste of bile and his heart was trying to erupt from his chest and he didn’t know what to do.</p><p>But he needs to do something.</p><p> </p><p>“Jaskier-“The bard is rambling, about something, his travels Geralt thinks. Jaskier laughs off the interruption. Makes a joke about Geralt still having a voice after all, and falls silent, looking at him, waiting for Geralt to speak. He did not think the vice could get tighter, yet somehow it does, twisting down, churning his already uneasy stomach.</p><p>Jaskier’s brow furrows slightly under his gaze, “Are you- is everything alright?”</p><p>He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t breathe, his heart beats too loudly in his ears. There is so much he wants to say.</p><p>He starts, pushing out the words over stumbling lips, spits out an “I’m” before his throat tightens up, cutting out the words.</p><p>He tries again, not pushing this time, letting the words tumble out, falling free of their own accord. He manages “I’m sorry.” He manages “come with me.”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier stares in silence. He worries he fucked up. He worries Jaskier will realise the need for an apology, realise the harm that had been done, and run. He won’t try to stop him if he does.</p><p>Jaskier pats his hand, he feels himself freeze at the casual touch.</p><p>Jaskier says “thank you.” Jaskier makes excuses for him, saying “It’s okay.” Saying “you were upset.” Geralt doesn’t find the strength yet to correct him.</p><p>Jaskier laughs and says, “Of course I’m coming with you, you can’t get rid of me that easily.”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier smiles and Geralt feels his heart flutter in response.</p><p> The vice has begun to loosen, not gone, not close to gone, but starting to open in a way it had not before.</p><p>He knows now, what he needs to do to open it, and he will do it. No matter how long it takes, he will prise open the vice, wash down the sour burn of sadness and rid himself his regrets.</p><p>He doesn’t know how yet, but he will fix this. He has the chance to get his bard back, and he will not let himself lose the man ever again.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you ever find out ur likely about to be made redundant so write just too many words to describe sorrow? Anyway, thanks for reading :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>